The voice behind him was almost ethereal, as if a whisper on the wind. He almost didn’t stop but, he had to. The hair on the back of his net stood up as the voice spoke again.
“Boy, get in the truck,” it said, again. He turned to see what he’d assume to be a girl of no more than twelve, if not for the lithe curve of her hip, bisected by the impossibly large shotgun she held. He smiled as he turned around.
“Well, lookie what we got here,” he said, spitting in the dirt in front of him. “Girl, shouldn’t you be home, waitin’ for yer paw?” She wanted to shoot him in the face, immediately.
“I’m not going to ask you again. Get in the truck,” she spoke calmly, her voice steely but quiet.
He laughed this time, putting his hands through his hair, reaching for the .38 he kept in a neck holster. In the Wastes, you needed to be careful, or else you’d be dead. He studied her; her posture gave her away as a terrible shooter, her knees knocked inward toward her pidgeon toes. The gun wavered back and forth as she held it in his direction more like a guitar than a gun, belying her nervousness. He took a tentative step forward, his hands in the air, forgetting about the gun for a moment.
“C’mon now, sweetheart. Hand Big Ol’ Jim that Thunderstick. I’d hate t’have t’hurtcha.” His crooked teeth looked sharp, as his grin twisted into something more sinister. With a name like Big Ol’ Jim, one would expect to stand six feet or more, or weigh somewhere in the neighborhood of an astronomical or impossible number. At five-eight in boots and a buck-oh-eight without ‘em, Big Ol’ Jim was far from an imposing figure, his pock marked face and slight lisp adding to his less-than-threatening stature.
“Shut up and get in the truck,” she spoke again, correcting her stance and shouldering the shotgun with a wry smile.
“Girl, I done tole you. Gimme the gun, so’s you don’t getcha self hurt.” Jim raised his voice as she raised the shotgun. He considered a step forward, and then thought better of it as she drew the boomstick down toward his precious bits. He swallowed hard as his smile disappeared. “What I gotta get t’th’truck fer?” he said, nervously, his Hillfolk accent coming out even bigger’n ‘fore.
“I wanna fuck,” she said, matter of factly, lowering her weapon. “And then afterward, I want to talk to you about the Free Society.”
Jim chuckled, feeling relieved. “Shoot,” he replied, exaggerating the ‘ooh’ sound for a moment longer than needed. “Ya’ll had me petrified that ya’ll was gunna pull that trigger.”
“The only trigger I’m interested in is the one I’m about to cock. If’n you get my drift.”
“Daaaamn, girl. You sure talk dirty,” Big Ol’ Jim replied. “I get your drift. Front seat or, should I be gentleman-like and take ya t’bed?”
“Doesn’t matter, friend. I’m not much of a lady anymore.”
Big Ol’ Jim had his druthers and walked around to the back of the dilapidated truck, hopping into the bed as he lowered his pants, revealing why he was – in fact – Big Ol’ Jim. He grinned and blushed at the same time as the stranger looked at it, a bit taken aback by the sight of it. “Now, don’t you worry nothin’. I’ll take good care of ya. But, first, tell me yer name.”
“Okay, yes. Tell me your real name, if’n y’want ta.”
Big Ol’ Jim wasn’t as much for brains as he was down below. He didn’t quite get it either time, until the girl shrugged. “My name is Truly. Truly Golightly.”
“Well, y’don’t gotta tell me yereal name if’n y’don’t want ta. ‘M okay wittit. Why don’tcha get on up here in the truck’n lemme show ya’ good time.”
I have to stop here. I’ve got no time to finish this right now, and don’t want to short it.